


Talk

by atom2



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Chirping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Harassment, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega/Omega, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 09:53:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18247451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atom2/pseuds/atom2
Summary: Marcus doesn’t need an alpha to save him.From now on, he decides the rules.He’s gonna make it to the NHL and shove his skate blade into someone’s face during the climb up.





	Talk

**Author's Note:**

> this pairing literally ONLY works in this dynamic. also surprisingly not a lot of ppl know about angel boy marcus foligno who actually is a huge mess, i can confirm as a wild fan. 
> 
> sorry for the horrible chirping. i have no excuse. sorry if the layout is confusing too? the idea was good but in hindsight it might not look the greatest to y'all.
> 
> also the Sens game mentioned is an actual game that happened on Jan. 5th, 2019. i love my stupid team.

**One**

 

Marcus was taught that being an omega in the NHL meant that it was him vs. the world. That’s how it is for every omega. You are complicit; you are skill and skill is you and you keep to yourself. Become the hottest goalie or the fastest skater or win every faceoff and maybe the reporters won’t ask you about “breaking barriers”, even though the NHL first allowed omegas to compete decades ago. Like your purpose still is to just carry an alpha’s kids as they go save the day.

Marcus doesn’t need an alpha to save him.

From now on, he decides the rules.

He’s gonna make it to the NHL and shove his skate blade into someone’s face during the climb up.

 

  
**Two**

 

The cut will bleed. Red will trickle down his face and seep into his mouth, its metallic flavor coating his tongue and staining his teeth with rust. Splotches will appear on the pristine white of his uniform. His stringy, sweat-coated hair will stick to his face and cover his eyes.

Marcus will feel his blood boil and want to kill.

 

  
**Three**

 

He’s pinned against the boards; crossed checked into the glass that rattles with each blow added on. The sound echoes through his skull and the crowd pounds the same surface in retaliation, creating a buzz that makes Marcus hyper-aware of the hollowness of his skull. He wants to close his eyes and savor the moment like he’s on a beach in Cancun. But this is ice hockey and he needs to find the puck. And man, this dude’s an ass.

The puck is chipped away from the boards by an outside party, but neither Marcus nor his new acquaintance run to catch up with it or complete a line change. The opposing player’s stick digs into Marcus’ back one more time before Marcus has had enough, shouldering the offender off, but not with enough force to send him flying. He hovers, so Marcus pretends to pay no mind while actually opening his ears to whatever chirp is coming his way.

“Saving your face for someone special, pretty boy?”

Marcus has heard it before. He keeps his drift over to where the faceoff was called, but the chirper, the _alpha_ , continues.

“Look at me, you bitch!”

Marcus turns.

“What do you do as the fourth line cocksleeve that gets you scratched all the time? You pregnant?”

“What the fuck did you say to me?”

“What? You have to be good for something.”

Even though Marcus has his back turned to the rest of the ice, he knows the linesman is whipping in their direction, ready to pull them apart. A hand connected to a pinstriped arm is about to tug Marcus away, dissolve the situation and let the words sit in the back of Marcus’ mind. It'll go on the list of nastiness that he runs through at night whenever he wishes there was someone beside him.

_There is no one for him. No one who wants an omega that's independent, that's feisty or rough or a leader. They'll degrade him while he's on the ice because they're right, he's not worth anything. He's broken._

His opponent's words are venom. They strike his heart and he feels pain blooming there, stitches on the emotional wound ripped open and exposing the raw flesh underneath. Something courses through his veins; aggravation, adrenaline, disgust. It must be released. Marcus pounces.

His stick clatters on the ice and his gloves follow suit; the alpha mirrors him. Marcus wants to choke him until those laughs turn to screams.

They claw at each other’s jerseys, trying to drag the other down. Marcus lands a couple of punches: an awkward jab at the alpha’s helmet and another one straight to the mouth. He reels when knuckles meet teeth and scrape against his skin. Blood must bead at the tip of the alpha’s tongue where he bit down because now the alpha is dripping red. Maybe a chiclet landed on the ice below them when Marcus wasn’t aware.

Marcus also must not have been aware of how forcefully he pulled back his arm, because suddenly his skates are losing traction and he’s falling backward, helpless as he’s driven into the cold, hard surface. Then it’s the alpha’s turn, nailing Marcus one, two, three times, relentlessly. Marcus needs more, he craves it, even when it seems the alpha’s become more subdued and his scent changes from attack to hesitation.

The alpha is yanked away and the lights stun Marcus, arms hanging in the air from where he was still holding on as the punches rained down.

Marcus _lost_.

He gets a couple pats on the back as he stomps down the tunnel, wobbly on his skates; vibrating like the sound waves generated by stick taps and cheers that dissolve as he gets farther away.

 

* * *

 

**One**

 

“Hey, Zach,” Ryan starts while skating up to the bench, stopping with a little skid. They’re at practice, and Ryan can con his way out of anything, so he’s casual as ever. Ryan leans an elbow on the half-wall, stick tucked under his armpit as he continues. “Have you spoken to Marcus at all today?” Ryan nods in the direction of Foligno, who’s in a white jersey on the other end of the ice, fooling around with Duby.

“No...” Zach scoots in closer to Ryan, lowering his voice with the knowledge that this conversation is probably going to be Alternate Captain Business; something strictly for their ears. “Why do you ask?”

“I think you should go check up on him.”

When Zach gives him a puzzled look, Ryan rolls his eyes, sighs, and clarifies: “I can smell his heat on him from a mile away.”

“He’s not in trouble, is he?”

“Well, no shit he’s not. You’re an omega, Zach, be smarter than that,” Ryan chuckles. Zach looks over to Marcus, paying closer attention like if looked hard enough he’d see ‘PRE-HEAT’ in glowing red letters written across his forehead. Ryan’s right, though. “Make sure he’s got himself figured out, alright? It’s an avoidable scratch.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“I don’t know, give him a pamphlet? You’ve got a lot more resources than I do about this. And no one wants to have _that_ conversation with Koivu.”

 

**Two**

 

Maybe, if a beta squinted, they’d be able to see that Marcus is an omega. Anyone’s first guess would surely be the opposite. He’s obnoxious, he’s douchey; like, obsessed with his hair douchey. He’s the dumb jock of all dumb jocks who fights and fires snot rockets and has the largest personality in every game of two touch. Yet when Zach approaches him, he approaches on the same playing field.

Marcus’ scent is mutual to what Zach senses from the rest of the omegas in the room; individual but at an even level, though Zach can detect the sickening sweetness Ryan noticed, the one indicative of heat. It’s like a honey cough drop you’ve grown so used to it becomes the taste of your morning breath and makes you ill when you just think of it. He gets a hint of what it’s supposed to be though, a low note closer to a 30 cent sample of clover honey at the farmer’s market.

When Zach comes to Marcus’ locker, Marcus is ready for him. Marcus had been standing idle and searching for something to do when he noticed Zach, who looked like he needed to talk to him. Marcus tried to think of what the alternate captain wanted before he was there, but couldn’t come up with anything. Maybe he’s doing something wrong. Maybe Zach just wants to chat.

“Hey, uh,” Zach checks to see if they’re not in anyone’s earshot. Heats aren’t taboo, but they’re not material for an everyday conversation. Zach wonders if he shouldn’t be worrying this much, since they’re in an NHL dressing room, after all. “A little birdie told me your heat cycle’s about to start.”

_Who the fuck just says that to someone?_

“Oh, yeah,” Marcus says, taken aback by the topic and considering deflection until he realizes the innocent look on Zach’s face is genuine; radiating the calm and decisive attitude he’s always had. If Zach wanted to have fun or mess with him, he wouldn’t have been able to wipe the smile off his face, let alone hold in his inevitable giggles. “Who… who told you?”

“I plead the fifth.”

Marcus laughs in disbelief. “You know you can just tell me it was the trainers and-”

“It was Sutes.”

“Of course. Why am I not surprised the A’s were gossiping about my heat?” Marcus is joking and thankfully Zach plays into that, but his chuckle is courteous and withheld.

“Seriously, though, are you going to be okay tonight? Is anyone going to be with you?” Zach feels like he’s prying and grimaces with the last question, wringing his hands in nervousness even though his concern is nothing that’s beyond his responsibilities. Marcus has heard it before; not from Zach, but from others checking the wellbeing of their skaters. It still doesn’t prevent each inquisition from being kind of bothersome.

“No, I’m just gonna,” Marcus tries to make his crude jacking-off signal discrete. Zach understands.

“Are you sure? It’s gonna suck by yourself,” Zach lowers his voice and looks again to see if anyone’s eavesdropping. “I could help.”

“Really, you’d do that?”

“Anything I can do.” And Zach means it. Anything to avoid a scratch, anything, out of care, because he always cares.

Zach agrees to stay the night.

 

**Three**

 

The Avalanche game is humming on the TV Zach doesn’t own and it’s weird to hear the sounds of pucks and sticks clacking together from off the ice. Zach’s uncomfortable not having the ability to poke Landeskog in another direction; into a shooting lane like a game of bubble hockey.

Marcus’ house is huge for one guy, but Zach supposed he has to do something with the $2.8 million a year as Marcus toured his kitchen, granite island shining in the yellow light. Marcus ran his hand across it as he walked through and pointed to everything’s place before introducing Zach to the living room. He disappeared upstairs after that, calling down that he’d text if he needed anything.

And that’s where Zach sits, slouched in a sticky leather couch and half-watching a game he should probably be paying close attention to. He can just hear Boudreau telling him what to look for, but he flicks him away. Zach imagines a mini-Bruce spinning around rapidly and his high-pitched voice yelling about puck movement fading away. The captains, including Staal, once sat around a table during team breakfast and concurred that they, the Minnesota Wild, will be the wall Humpty Dumpty sits on AND the reason why he falls. All, they agreed, for good reason.

Zach looks at the time on his phone, then behind him at the carpeted stairs. The banister, like the countertops in the kitchen, is shiny and pristine in a way that’s unexpected of Marcus. Zach thought Marcus’ tidiness would reflect his “human mess” personality, but here he is, facing the spotless oak stairs straight out of a Menards catalog. He stares up, puzzles over what Marcus could be doing in that dark abyss of a second floor, then figures he should check on him. Marcus said he’d text, but he hasn’t, and it’s been an hour. Knowing Marcus has probably done this by himself long before Zach ever approached him about it, he’s probably achieved a pace efficient enough he clocked out without thinking to get in touch with Zach. He pads up the stairs, letting the Avs power play go unwatched.

It isn’t until the door of the bedroom is wide open when Zach realizes waltzing in without warning isn’t very polite when the guy on the other side could be unabashedly jacking off.

 

**Four**

 

Zach helps Marcus because it’s the captainly thing to do. It’s the omega thing to do, too, but he recognizes the assistance as a priority rather than a characteristic.

There’s a twinge inside Zach after that makes him cherish Marcus in a way he hadn’t before, the way you cherish a drawing from a child. No matter how messy and nonsensical it is, their pure existence gave everything their little mind could hold and dedicated it to you. Zach, too, feels like dedicating everything to Marcus, gifting to him the sun that so beautifully illuminates his face and makes his curls glisten like he’s been sent from heaven.

 _Just for him._ Marcus is just for him, and Marcus holds onto Zach tightly as if to say, “I know.” Words tumble out of Zach’s mouth uncontrollably, sweet mumblings of endearment and fondness as he holds Marcus’ face in his hands and strokes his cheekbones with his thumbs. Marcus’ eyes are wet, like, crying wet, but Zach doesn’t want to know. If Marcus is overcome with anything, he’ll know later. Right now he just needs to take care, get some rest, and accept what Zach has to offer.

 

* * *

 

  
**Talk**

 

They win a terrifyingly close one against the Senators the same day Marcus wakes up in Zach’s arms, drinks in the sight, and feels a burn up his spine that tells him he needs _more._ For an entire week he’ll need more, but what satisfaction Zach’s hand can give him will have to do for the morning. Zach washes the come off his hand and presents to Marcus his bottle of suppressants, along with a glass of water, which he urges him to sip slowly.

Marcus isn’t five, but he indulges in being mothered by Zach, who gives him the same small smile as the one from last night when he was relishing in how good Marcus took everything.

That night, when Marcus invites him over to stress-eat about how they nearly lost the lead in the third to the worst team in the NHL, Zach apologizes.

Marcus microwaved two sweet potatoes and a bag of frozen broccoli and called it a night for his brain, dumping the borderline “depression meal” on two separate plates and presenting one to Zach. It’s good, for being a product of Chef Mike. Zach blindly digs in, paying closer attention to how Marcus chose to sit on the floor instead of the chair right behind him. Zach feels awkward sitting on the couch now, towering over Marcus like a skyscraper, so he shrugs and moves down to Marcus’ level, sitting to the left of him at the coffee table.

“I’m sorry,” Zach begins, a mouth full of sweet potato. He wants to continue but he’s interrupted by Marcus, who’s busy eating instead of making eye contact.

“For what?” Marcus offers a half-glance to Zach after detecting he’s being rude for carrying a conversation with his plate. He looks back down quickly, though, and eats a sprig of broccoli before realizing he could use some water.

“For forcing it last night. I shouldn’t have just stepped in like that. It’s not what I was there for-”

“But you did it anyway.” Marcus completes Zach’s sentence for him, dryly. “Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t having a very good time before you came in anyway.”

“I still shouldn’t have taken advantage of you.”

“Who said you were taking advantage of me? I needed it. Thank you,” Marcus responds, and the conversation seems to end there. An awkward silence fills the room and Zach’s embarrassed for even bringing it up. He wants to book it, or maybe throw up orange mush.

Marcus senses Zach’s at a loss for words and is exhausted by the quizzical look on his face. He speaks up. “Look, it’s not a big deal. Things have been tough going it alone and I appreciate your company.” He takes another bite of his food. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m into omegas anyway.”

Zach still looks so confused. He shovels more potato into his mouth to try to hide it, though he knows Marcus can see through him. “Like, exclusively?” he asks, watching Marcus carefully, trying to read his next move like he’s a goaltender.

“Yeah, it, uh,” Marcus raises his finger to excuse himself, allowing himself to chew before he answers the question. “Well, hockey kinda ruined alphas for me. Being the only omega enforcer in the league, it fucks you up. The, like, trauma from the harassment I’ve received just turned me off entirely. I don’t want that in someone.

“Omegas are like, soft, y’know? They’re always gonna be gentle. They’re not…” Marcus trails off and needs to be prompted by Zach to continue. His voice is restrained when he snaps back to reality. “They’re not looking to take anything.”

On that note, Zach’s chest is heavy. He had no idea it was that bad; that there were any problems at all. Not with the general treatment of omegas, he knows full well that’s been shit. Zach didn’t realize Marcus was being singled out. He drops his fork. “You’re getting harassed? How come I didn’t know about this?”

“Hippocratic oath must have something to do with it, I mean, no team’s mental health professional is going to go spill the beans about the guy that visits them most frequently to whoever they want, even if they have the A or C on their sweater.

“But I don’t want them out there telling anyone, either. Not even you.” Marcus realizes he sounds like a dick. “Uh, sorry.”

“There’s nothing wrong with getting help,” Zach assures him, honestly.

“I know, but...” Marcus has stopped eating now, too, and inhales through his nostrils. “Every time I go on the ice, they single me out because they feel threatened, and they use any vulnerability for leverage. So, yeah, it’s great to be open about that stuff; great to spread awareness. But I’d be killing myself if I did it.”

“You don’t need to take any of their shit, you never take any of their shit. You kick their ass.”

“I kick their ass because it’s the one thing I can do to save myself from believing what they say is true.” Marcus’ voice is stern, almost loud, and Zach can see ice in his eyes. Marcus is bitter and Zach understands why. He’s dug up some deep shit, peeled back the wallpaper and found a door that hides too many secrets to hold in both hands. Zach wants to shut it, call it over with, apologize again for messing this all up, but he realizes this moment holds unfathomable significance. He is the only teammate Marcus has ever opened up to about this.

“Do you know how hard it is,” Marcus continues, gaze still locked on Zach. “To work your ass off, to drill ‘I am good enough’ into your brain, only to constantly think it’s not true?

“Whatever happened last night isn’t important because you fucked up. It’s important because I’ve been spit on and told too many times that no one will touch me; that no omega wants me.”

Zach flashes back to last night: what feelings came over him, what intentions were behind it all, what took place. No one feels that way for no reason, no one goes out of their way and does something out of _love_ because it’s the spur of the moment. Sure, it was never meant to be more than one time, one text, something temporary that just didn’t end up with Zach crashing on the couch, but he has to give it a shot. His instincts just can’t be wrong, he won’t let them be.

“But do _you_ know the omega that wants you is sitting next to you?” Zach is not bitter; he’s a lot more subdued, but his words hold just as much power. Silence falls over the room once again, and it looks like Marcus is thinking back too, or trying to come up with anything to contradict him.  
He can’t.

And when Zach puts a hand over Marcus’ as an offering, Marcus looks from the floor to him and laces their fingers together. Shy, but honest. An admission; a confession: Marcus had been wrong because he hadn’t looked in plain sight.

**Author's Note:**

> is marcus foligno capable of making food? most likely. did he once use spam grease as hair gel? yes. would he try to fight gordon ramsey? probably.


End file.
